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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146974">Muddy fingertips</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10'>Mishka10</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Whumptober</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:02:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146974</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>blood, dirt and pain, just a regular Tuesday evening for a Witcher really.</p><p>But then a hunt gets messy. Claws wind up sunk deep into flesh, and Geralt is left wiping up the blood when the monster of the week manages to take a chunk out of Jaskier before being put down.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Muddy fingertips</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Knees sink into the soft dirt. Ground giving way to the weight of a heavy body. A sharp fall, deep imprints. Weight sending him tipping forward, a hand sinking into the earth along with his knees. Ground pressing back against the push, ground slipping through the cracks, fingers digging into the dirt.</p><p>Dirt spilling over fingers, burying the hand.</p><p>It is cold. Gritty and harsh against his skin.</p><p> </p><p>He gasps. Tugging in a broken breath, chest heaving. Pulling heavy against the weight of gravity. The weight of the world, calling him down. Calling him to sink down into the earth below.</p><p>Give in and fall, into the mud. Let it stick and well up around him. climb up the sides, a thick, sticky wall. Deep and dark, pressing in from all edges. Pressing in deep. Let it swallow him whole.  </p><p>Let himself sink down deep, into the cool darkness.</p><p>The comfortable cool depth of the earth, sliding between his fingers, beckoning him down.</p><p> </p><p>His fingers curl in the ground. Tips pressing down, dirt sunk under his fingernails, sticking in deep.</p><p>He chokes back a tired scream. Forcing the muscles to move against the weight, spasming in his neck, desperate and tired. Chest pulling up as best it can.</p><p>Chest pulling in as best it can.</p><p>Muscles fighting against the tug of gravity. Against the call of the dirt below.</p><p>Pulling away.</p><p> </p><p>Aching. Deep. Centred.</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in a breath. A broken, bloody breath. Feels the blood tinge his mouth. Sticking sharp to his teeth, slick on his tongue, metallic and hot. Burning.</p><p>He snorts.</p><p>Feels the blood dribble out, down his nose, across his lips, dripping down his chin.</p><p> </p><p>It falls.</p><p>Blood mixes with dirt. Staining it. tinging it a messy, rusty red. Deep droplets sinking in, sinking down. Sucked up by the earth, ground licking it up, hungry and desperate. It disappears ever so quick, there for a moment, then gone, back down, into the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Pulling in.</p><p>Pulling down.</p><p>Calling to him. Tugging at the skin.</p><p>The whispered promise of rest.</p><p>Of cold and damp and soft. Muffled silence pressing in so comfortably, cover up the cracks.</p><p>It pulls.</p><p> </p><p>He pushes.</p><p>Pushes back. Pushes against the ground. Hand firm. Hand pushing back against the pulling ground. Against the soft, insistent earth.</p><p>He pushes back.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers curled in the dirt. Not digging down but pushing back.</p><p>He shoves back. Hand sinking in under the weight, before springing back, pulled with the weight of his body. Slings back onto firm heels, handprint left clear in the dirt before him. Knees sinking deeper beneath him.  </p><p> </p><p> Hand curls around tired ribs. Pulling in more broken breaths. Easier now, now he doesn’t have to fight against the pull of the world to manage it. Knees still sucken deep, dirt still lapping at his legs, calling to him, but quieter now.</p><p>Ignorable.</p><p>No longer clawing at his lungs, trying to push its way down his throat. Cover him. Suffocate him.</p><p> </p><p>He sits heavy on his heels. Pressing down. Blood dripping from soft fingertips, pooling in the indents. Lapping at his skin, sticking cloth to flesh before sinking down, back into the earth below.</p><p>Returning from whence it came.</p><p>Back to the messy, greedy earth below.</p><p> </p><p>Gods was it still so tempting to want to follow.  To sink back down, first hand, then arm, head, body…</p><p> </p><p>A cry.</p><p>Sharp, harsh, calling out from behind him. Desperate and crying, edged with pain.</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Head snaps up.</p><p>Over, to the body held aloft, pinned sharp against a tree. Bark digging into a slim back, twigs tangled and twisted in light strands of brown hair. Strong frame held firm to the wood. Stuck fast by the thick claws pinned through his shoulder.</p><p>The cost of his distraction.</p><p>Cost of listening to the call of soft dirt.</p><p> </p><p>Sharp, pointed edges. Piercing through soft flesh. Almost a blessing in their monstrosity, the awkward angle of the stab keeping sharp teeth from tearing open an unprotected throat. Keeps sharp teeth snapping shut inches from a soft nose. Beast snarling in anger.</p><p>Jaskier gasps. Struggling in the grip.</p><p>Movement tearing his flesh further, shirt stained red with blood. Sticky fluid slowly flowing, sluggishly leaking free, around the claws.</p><p> </p><p>He tugs up, pushing back against the clawing ground. The screaming stillness of the earth. Pushes up, an unsteady foot sinking into the dirt in place of his knee. Uses it to pivot up, pull a tired body free from the grasping hold of cold dirt.</p><p>Sword swings heavy in hand, spinning for a moment, unadjusted, unbalanced. Lands heavy in the palm, finding its place, its fit. Slick metal, warm and strong, curled in a firm grip.</p><p> </p><p>Boots scuff the dirt, sinking into the ground as he moves. Ground still calling out, challenging him to stumble, to tip back down, back into the dirt yet again.</p><p>He resists. Careful footing keeping him from slipping down into the mud.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a step, one, and then another, mud lapping at his boots.</p><p> </p><p>The beast snaps. Snarls. Trying to push up, against the strength of its own claws, dig the sharp teeth into its meal, stuck inches away from the hungry mouth.</p><p>It can smell the blood. Sharp, tangy. Smell it bright in the air, so close, only just out of reach.</p><p>The smell drives it forward in hungry desperation. Hand twisting, bones crunching as it tries to twist and bend, find some way to reach its prey without risking releasing it.</p><p> </p><p>He takes another step, legs firmer now, ground found, settled beneath his feet. Leans back on heavy heels, hoists an arm, sword spinning in his grip.</p><p>He catches Jaskier’s eye, just before he swings. It is only for a second, not having time to waste. Catches sight of the expression on Jaskier’s face, oddly calm for the situation. Pained and uncomfortable more than anything else, lacking the fear he would expect to find on anyone else.</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in a breath. Feels the weight of his grip. The heavy press of boots into dirt, and swings.</p><p>Sword slices up, cutting through flesh. Head freed from body, blood splattered out, hot and sticky. Flooding out onto Jaskier, coating the bards face, chest, clothes and skin soaked alike.</p><p>Jaskier splutters, face scrunched in disgust. Seeming less than pleased with his current predicament.</p><p> </p><p>The head falls, sliding free from a bloody stump of a neck. Falls heavy in the dirt, bouncing slightly as it hits the ground. Earth quick to hungrily claim it, climb its way up, stick to its face, clump in what he can only guess is its hair.</p><p> </p><p>Before him Jaskier grunts. Still pinned to the tree, claws remaining stuck fast even as the body falls. Weight pulling down, slicing flesh. Nails bending in the wood, jammed too firm into bark to simply slip free.</p><p>He grabs the body. Steadies his feet, standing firm and tugs. Yanks back as quick and clean as he can.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier screams at that. At the heavy, messy tug of nail from flesh. Claws scrapping the edge of bone. The blood spurts, flowing much more freely now, without the blockage stopping it up, holding it in place.</p><p>Gushing out, further staining already ruined clothing.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier’s feet hit the ground, almost followed shortly by his knees. Before Geralt gets an arm on him. Tossing the beasts body aside to curl round the bard’s shaking shoulders. Holds him as he coughs, spits, wipes the mess from his face, an unpleasant mixture of blood and snot, no way of knowing how much of the blood was Jaskier’s, how much the monster’s.</p><p>He tugs the bard back up. Onto unstable feet. Away from the call of the dirt.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier snorts, tipping forward, head hitting his shoulder, spreading the bloody mess, smearing it across Geralt’s shirt and neck.</p><p>He grunts. At the weight. The mess, the cold, the uncomfortable press of sticky, stained skin against his own. Combined weight pushing heels down deeper into the dirt.</p><p> </p><p>He grunts, tucks an arm around Jaskier’s chest, hand slotted into the bard’s armpit, holding him up, holding him close. He tugs them both forward, carefully stepping around the corpse. Tugs them onwards. Free from the mud, lapping at their heels. Pauses only to tug up the head from the mud. Pull it free from the earths grasp, provide proof enough of his efforts.</p><p>They half stumble on, Jaskier almost takes a knee once, foot sliding on the soft earth, failing to find purchase, almost giving in to the dirt’s command to sink back down, into its soft grasp.</p><p> </p><p>Geralt keeps him standing. Arm firm around the idiot. Holding firm. Keeping him from the pull.</p><p>Keeps them moving.</p><p> </p><p>Until they reach the edge of the trees. The waiting horse, safe on the side-lines, where Jaskier <em>should </em>have been.</p><p>He almost half throws Jaskier up onto Roaches back. Bard coherent enough to scramble up, struggle into a seated position, good hand holding tight to the front of the saddle, other cradled soft against his body, arm and shoulder too torn open to be much help.</p><p> </p><p>He takes the reigns, tugs Roach forward. Tries to ignore the pained whimper Jaskier gives as the horse jolts forward, body unbalanced, skin tugging on the wound.</p><p> </p><p>They make it back to the town. A town. Tiny back-streets little hollow of a spot. Muddled collection of houses all twisted and crowded together. Huddled near, almost on top of each other, safe from the night. From the bite of a cold, cruel winter, the snap of hungry jaws.</p><p> </p><p>They make it back to the inn. As much of an inn as it is, a small bar, only a spare room or two in the back, not much of an inn by city standards, but the best they can manage out here.</p><p>He shoves his way through the door. Hears it slam against the wood of the wall, bouncing off the boards. Slips through the quiet room, tugging Jaskier with him, across a silent room, patrons and innkeeper both long retired for the night.</p><p> </p><p>He tugs them through the door in the back, lock clicked open with comfortable ease. Room small and dim, only really just big enough to fit a bed. Jaskier sighs, low and tired, sat heavy on the edge of the bed, blood still dripping from his wounds.</p><p>He watches the man sit, shoulders slumped, leaving it for a moment as he tugs loose his heavy armour, lets it slide to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>He turns, finds Jaskier working on removing his own clothes in turn. Numb fingers fiddle with buttons, sliding open a stained doublet, a ruined undershirt, Geralt helps slide them off the bard’s shoulders, pausing to let Jaskier wipe the worst of the mess off his face, onto the ruined shirt before he tosses them both aside, soaked and bloody as they are. Claw wounds rendering them unsavable, even if they could get the blood out.</p><p> </p><p>He grabs a thankfully full pitcher, settles down beside Jaskier, bard’s skin stained as red as his clothes.</p><p>He drags a damp cloth across it, careful around the edges of the wounds. The torn and ragged flesh. Cleans it best he can, wipe the flesh clean, rag stained red ever so quick. Water tinged pink faster then he would have liked.</p><p>He presses the cloth to the wounds. Nudges Jaskier into holding it there, letting it soak up any blood still trickling out as he digs free a needle and thread from his bag.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier winces at the sight. Fingers clawing at the bed covers, grasping them tight as he steadies himself, in preparation for what is to come.</p><p> </p><p>He dabs at the wounds, tries to get them as clean as he can, make sure it is free of mud or grit or anything else before he starts to sew. He grunts, hand leant steady against Jaskier’s skin, takes a breath, eyes meeting Jaskier’s for a moment, offers a firm, comforting nod.</p><p>Jaskier nods back, in understanding. Acceptance of what is to come.</p><p> </p><p>He pierces into the skin, as steady and smooth as he can manage, hand mercifully steady, needle sliding through flesh. Hears Jaskier’s gasp at the movement. He glances up. Takes in the bard’s mess of an expression. Jaskier winces, face crinkled up.</p><p>It is a convincing show of pain, if a little over dramatic. He’s seen Jaskier manage worse with little more than a grimace, this is clearly at least in part just for show. Not that he minds.</p><p> </p><p>He ties off the first one, as gently as he can. Snips free the extra thread and gives Jaskier a second to breath before moving on to the next one. Jaskier huffs, offers an irritated glower, fake annoyed frown at the pain.</p><p>He snorts at the face, the overexaggerated annoyance, moving on to the next wound, and then the next after that.</p><p>Until they are all done. As neat and tidy as he can manage. Neat and tidy wounds, all patched up. He won’t pretend to say as good as new, but better then before, if nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier hums, studying it. Studying the clean, crisp stitches, carved into his chest. Deep lines, stark against his scrubbed clean skin. Raw and red as it is. He winds a bandage around the mess, covers the wounds, to keep them safe, keep them from ripping open in the night. Soak up any blood that may still spill free.</p><p> </p><p>Wound covered he stands, steps back to tug open his own spoiled clothing. Slide open stiff buttons, shrug off a surprisingly clean t-shirt. Carefully peel off muddy pants, dirt soaked deep into the cloth, it would take some time soaking to ever get them even close to clean again.</p><p>But then that was an issue for another Geralt.</p><p>For the Geralt in the morning, a man well rested, well slept. Body free of aches and pains and if he is lucky, worry. For now, they can stay where they were dropped, stay where they were left.</p><p> </p><p>He rolls tired shoulders, turns back to the bed, finds Jaskier already half curled up under the blankets. He looks… soft. Warm. A gentle, tired expression on his face. Body curled up comfortable. Tucked away in bed.</p><p>Jaskier snuffles. Hums, not yet asleep, but surprisingly close to it.</p><p> </p><p>He does his best to hold back a smile at the sight. Heads over, quiet and soft, feet gentle against the firm ground. The ground that holds strong, not asking anything of him, not trying to tug him down, to its cold core, only letting him be, letting him stand free.</p><p>He settles on the bed softly, opposite to Jaskier, bard turned from him, tucked to the side. He runs a soft hand through Jaskier’s hair, trails it down, soft and gentle, feeling the warmth of the man’s body, the soft little shiver Jaskier gives at the touch.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but hide the smile at that. The scrunch of the nose, little shake in the shoulders.</p><p>He slides in beside the man, tucks himself under the blanket, alongside the bard. Hand pressed soft and warm against Jaskier’s back for a moment longer.</p><p> </p><p>He slides the hand down, tugs the blankets up, over tired shoulders. Curls round, to face Jaskier, throws a soft arm around the bard, hand curled soft and gentle on the man’s shoulder. Resting there, soft and comfortable, fingers resting against the wrapping, feeling the rough cloth below his soft fingertips.</p><p>Jaskier murmurs. Shifts back, body pressed back comfortably, slotted against Geralt.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles at the shift, hides it in Jaskier’s hair as best he can. He lets the arm slide further over, down gently, tucked around Jaskier’s waist. Ignores the hair tickling at his nose, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of Jaskier’s head.</p><p>Snuggled down, comfortable, contented, and soft.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>-thanks for reading-</p></blockquote></div></div>
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